


Hold My Head Up

by Naeherys



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Ahhhhhhhh, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dragon Age II Spoilers, F/F, Healing, Help, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Lesbian, Lesbian Character, MILFs, Power Dynamics, Sapphic, Slow Burn, Templars (Dragon Age), Unrequited Crush, im back bitches, milf!!!!, women with swords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naeherys/pseuds/Naeherys
Summary: In the aftermath of Kirkwall's final battle, Hawke tries to reconcile her differences with Knight-Commander Meredith, and ends up discovering that the two of them are more similar than she thought.
Relationships: Bethany Hawke/Isabela, Female Hawke/Meredith Stannard
Kudos: 15





	1. Fighting of the Innocents

**Author's Note:**

> In honour of the new DA4 trailer coming out I replayed my (favourite) game: Dragon Age 2. YES it's unpopular but imo the story is just so....nuanced. One of the things I noticed on this playthrough was how Knight-Commander Meredith was super dope and badass and a well-written villain and of course my gay-ass Hawke just has to have a crush on her. I think Hawkedith is a very rare ship, especially with FemHawke, so I wanted to shed some light on one of my new faves. She's a milf! What can I say!
> 
> I have a penchant for trying to create long, long fics instead of one-shots, so hopefully this will continue for a while. It's been years since I posted so trying to get back into things. Many thanks to all the other Hawkedith fics I've read recently––u guys are killing it!
> 
> Lots of love through this sapphic journey !

As shrapnel and ash rained down on them, Hawke looked over and studied the Knight-Commander’s face, trying to remember how the two of them had gotten to this point. Meredith’s face had gone pale, her mouth trying to formulate words to express the white-hot rage that was starting to rise up in her hulking, armoured form. No, not rage. Was it...fear? Hawke didn’t even know whether Meredith was capable of feeling such a thing. Hawke started to shake. Already, she could hear screams echoing through Hightown, screams of the people whose houses were flattened by their imminent location to the blast. Screams of parents who’d sent their children to the Chantry for a better life and were just now realizing that they were lost. Hawke could smell smoke and burnt flesh and lyrium; her ears started to ring with the delayed force of the blast and she felt herself falling to her knees. Ash began to cover her face, filling up her nostrils with a terrible smell, and she reached her hand out to catch the falling flakes. 

An image rang out in her vision. Meredith killing the Saarebas in front of her. Saving her life. That had been only a few months prior, four or five. Six. Hawke barely knew anymore. She remembered how she felt, seeing in person the intimidating figure that she’d heard only in conversation. Meredith stood almost six feet tall in armour, dwarfing even Aveline by comparison, and the scowl she wore when she held out her hand to help Hawke to her feet made Hawke think that she’d rather have left her to die. Her blonde hair cascaded down from her hood, and her diadem glimmered in the wan sun. She had heaved Hawke up like she was a ragdoll. Hawke had tumbled into her armour and quickly recoiled. 

_I am Knight-Commander Meredith._ The deep voice echoed through the Hightown courtyard. Hawke felt her stomach drop. _I know you,_ the voice had said. How did she know her? 

Hawke probably said something stupid, something sarcastic that now faded into obscurity. She probably kicked herself, but then, they had taken on the Arishok and defeated him, and that was something, wasn’t it?

But that had been in the past. This was now. Now, the Chantry was gone. The Grand Cleric assassinated. Not that Hawke had ever particularly cared for Elthina, but this was treason of the highest form. The thought of it made her sick to her stomach. She heaved on her knees. How could Anders have been so foolish? 

Hawke shook her head. _Justice._ Not Anders. 

“Maker save us,” Meredith breathed, at last. The fear that Hawke sensed initially was in full force now, and she could hear a slight quaver in Meredith’s voice. But the rage was still there; bubbling up, threatening to take over. Hawke doubled over again and retched. Isabela and Varric shared a worried look. Anders looked shocked. 

Finally, Meredith cast her glance over to Hawke, who shared an icy look for a split second. Hawke trembled. She didn’t want to know what Meredith had on her mind––she already knew. Orsino appeared to know, as well––he was already on Anders, grabbing him, shaking him, _what have you done, what have you done._ Meredith appeared to close her eyes and pray before standing up once more and facing them all. Hawke trembled at the sight of her––she’d not gotten used to it. Fully armoured Meredith could kill a man with one glance, it was said. Hawke believed it. 

Anders began to protest, but Hawke could barely hear, the ringing in her ears like a loud bell. Threatening to overtake her senses. As Anders and Orsino squabbled, Meredith’s voice cut through the clamour like a dagger. 

“The Grand Cleric slain by magic,” she rasped, her voice raw. Barely able to contain the rage. “The Chantry destroyed.” 

Hawke knew what was coming next. She didn’t want to utter the words. She knew Meredith wouldn’t hesitate to slaughter the mages if she’d had a chance. Which meant––Bethany. Fenris. Merrill, maybe. The thought brought tears to Hawke’s eyes. _Needless slaughter, needless violence._ There would be so much lost in the collateral. 

“As Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment,” Meredith spat, a flicker of red in her periphery. “Every mage in the Circle is to be executed––immediately.”

_Don’t._ Hawke got up, trying to steady her voice. Orsino had lost it––he was spewing a range of profanities, all of them lost. 

“Knight-Commander,” Hawke got out. Then––

“Meredith.” 

The Knight-Commander looked up sharply, meeting Hawke’s eyes. The fear returned, along with the rage, and something else imperceptible that Hawke couldn’t make out. She steeled her jaw and stepped closer.

“Meredith, please,” she uttered, voice low. She felt desperation creep into her voice. “Don’t do this.” 

“Even you see the carnage that will ensue from this, Champion,” Meredith said. “It’s not up to me. The people of Kirkwall will riot. They will cause more damage than even I.”

_Please._ Hawke looked over at her sister. Bethany was looking forward, rocking on her feet. For once, she looked strong. Iron. Bethany was gentle, and sweet, but now Hawke could see she faced her fate with a steely resolve. The thought made Hawke want to sob. 

Meredith, however, stepped imperceptibly closer amidst the chaos. She looked Hawke dead in the eye and leaned in; to an outside onlooker, it would have seemed they were sharing a joke. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly soft; gone was the raw edge that had tinged her cries for vengeance only a few minutes earlier. 

“I am going to do this once, Hawke, and once only,” the Knight-Commander uttered. “Tell your sister to run. If she can make it to the Amell estate, she will be spared.”

Hawke stepped back, incredulous. Meredith narrowed her eyes. “Now.”

She then looked back at her templars, quaking in their boots. Orsino had gone silent, wracked with guilt and pain and anger. 

“We move, boys,” she announced, the rage now back in full force. “Cause as little damage as you can.” 

The templars scattered, as did Orsino and his mages. Hawke finally felt all her senses come crashing down; the screams, smells, and sights were vivid once more. She became aware of Isabela shaking her, screaming _we have to move, now, now,_ and she drew a breath and turned to Bethany. _Bethany, run,_ Hawke murmured in her ear. _Go to the Amell estate; hide in the cellar. Lock yourself in. They won’t look for you. Take Isabela with you for protection._ Hawke looked at the pirate, who nodded gravely. _Thank you,_ she mouthed. 

And then Bethany and Isabela were gone, tearing up to Hightown. They would be safe, locked in. Bethany would do a locking spell; Isabela would kill anyone that dared get too close. Hawke sent a brief prayer to the Maker before turning back to the rest of her companions. Aveline had already tackled Anders, holding his wrists down, trying to break his staff. There were tears in her eyes, too: Hawke hadn’t seen Aveline cry since Wesley died. She felt sick. Anders would have to die, of course. He had committed innocent mages to a death sentence. He had indirectly threatened Bethany’s safety, too; Hawke thought of it and tried to swallow a lump in her throat. So much violence. 

Hawke got up, unsheathed her daggers. She knew it was going to be a long day. 

****************

_Six months earlier_

“So, Champion. Are you enjoying the title?” 

The Knight-Commander sat at her desk, knitting her fingers together. Hawke focused on her hands; they were strong and muscular, her nails short and trimmed and lightly caked with blood. Hawke shuddered, though not entirely unpleasantly. There was something about Meredith’s raw, unfiltered power that pervaded the air around them; it made Hawke tremble. 

“Titles are not really my thing, Knight-Commander,” Hawke admitted with a wry smile. “I much prefer to get the job done and get my coin, rather than bask in the glory.” 

“A wise choice.”

“Simply doing my duty.” 

Meredith remained stony-faced, though she raised a gauntleted hand up to touch her brow. “The Arishok was a danger to us. I owe you my thanks.” She held forward her hand expectantly. Hawke took it in hers, feeling the armour press coolly against her skin. She swallowed and looked up. The Knight-Commander cast her an impassive glance. She frightened Hawke, and she rarely smiled or offered a witty quip like Hawke did. Still, something about her drew Hawke nearer. She had a way of making unbreaking eye contact that terrified Hawke, yet there was something alongside the danger that presented itself as well. 

“You may have been a nuisance in my reports,” Meredith offered, letting her hand go. “But it seems I was mistaken about your allegiances. You command a certain amount of respect in the city, and that is not something to be trifled with.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you respect me?” Hawke attempted to sound brave. She likely ended up sounding a fool. 

Meredith arched an eyebrow. “I do not think I know yet. Someone who has risen up through the ranks as a mercenary, slaying those for blood money, signals to me bad character. And yet you sided with me when you did not have to. For the good of Kirkwall. That, I cannot ignore.”

“And what about my companions? You must know I keep company with mages. That does not bother you?”

Meredith sighed. “Your associations with mages do bother me. Though I am inclined to look the other way, seeing as how you saved the city. I am not in a position to be critical.” She sat back down in her chair, her brow furrowed.

“My sister––Bethany––is a mage,” Hawke explained. “She would never cause anyone unjust harm. You have to know that, Knight-Commander.”

“As was mine, Champion,” Meredith muttered. “You never expect when one finally turns to blood magic at last.”

_Hold on._ “Your...sister?”

“Yes, Champion,” Meredith sighed. Her voice took on a tone that was akin to something like wistfulness. “There is not much you need to know now. Amelia was a frightened girl, utterly unequipped for the power that the Maker gave her. We knew she would not make it past her Harrowing.” She clasped her hands. 

“How old were you?” Hawke murmured. She felt Meredith’s words like a stinging blow. This was unexpected. “What happened?”

“Her gifts eventually got the most of her,” Meredith said, looking up at Hawke. Her expression hardened. “She’d slain seventy innocents by the time the templars got to her. Including my family.”

Oh shit. “I’m….” Hawke hovered, trying to find words. “I’m sorry, Meredith.” 

They sat in stony silence for an eternity, breathing. Thinking. Hawke reached out and laid her hand on top of Meredith’s but the Knight-Commander stiffened at her touch. She snapped her head up. Hawke stared at her, and finally the Knight-Commander shook her head.

“My apologies, Champion. I did not mean to lose face.”

“It’s all right.” 

Hawke offered a bow, walking out of Meredith’s office, the Knight-Commander looking up at her as she left. “Good day, Knight-Commander.”

Meredith struggled to find the words in thin air. “Good day...Hawke.”

The name sounded foreign, bulky in her mouth. Hawke stared, and Meredith dipped her head slightly, as if to acknowledge her. 

The air was thick, choking Hawke with constriction and words that she wanted to say but found she couldn't. She gulped and headed outside, the wary gaze of the Knight-Commander on her back as she left.


	2. It's Over, It's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke fights the Knight-Commander one on one.

“It’s over, Meredith,” Hawke rasped, her voice thick with the blood running down the back of her nose to her throat. “It’s over.”

The Knight-Commander, her eyes tinged with red and gold and flecked with blood, wavered where she stood. It scared Hawke; she had clearly gone off the deep end. There would be no reasoning. No answers, or debates. _Needless slaughter, needless violence, again._ She didn’t want to kill Meredith, yet Meredith seemed intent on killing her. Although she’d been fucked out of her mind on red lyrium, and who knew whether the Knight-Commander that Hawke had spoken with earlier in the day had really been the Meredith she trusted and respected? 

And yet, she could tell that for all her power, Meredith had lost something within her. Her will to fight ebbed and flowed. The red idol-sword that she so cherished and protected was also destroying her from the inside. Hawke felt more blood streaming out of her nostrils. She spat; it wasn’t like the courtyard of the Gallows hadn’t already been stained with enough gore. Her vision swam with figures of Bethany, Isabela, Varric, all dancing in front of her, _taunting her_ ––no, helping her. She wasn’t sure any more. 

Meredith heaved a snarl and levelled her gaze at Hawke. Somehow, though, Hawke knew that the fight had been done long before. 

_It’s over. It’s over._ Anders was dead, his throat cut. Hawke was barely able to keep her tears in. Tears of rage, of sadness; she’d had to kill someone she considered at best a friend and at worst a mortal enemy. He didn’t even plead––he just accepted his fate. That had made Hawke feel more enraged, more terrified. He’d known all along. He’d known the implications it would have had for himself––and for Bethany. In the end, Anders didn’t cry out. Neither did Hawke. She had sat in stunned silence while her companions gathered their weapons, ready for a long fight, ready to risk their lives. Hawke felt a crush of guilt, a weight of her friends’ lives in her hands, and had retched over again until Aveline steadied her and Fenris gave her a stamina draught to right her. _Now you must be strong,_ they’d said. Hawke wasn’t sure if she could manage.

And then, they’d found Orsino turned into––an _abomination._ Hawke saw visions of mages in ash and blood, casting runes or firing a bolt of ice at templars. She’d killed Orsino, too; she’d seen the sadness in his eyes even as he was transformed from an elf into a monster, seen the way the creature begged, gasped for energy and life and blood. Meredith had seen her, then, too; harrowed, angry. Hawke foolishly thought she’d be proud of her. Of what she'd done. 

Then, at long last, Hawke realized that the lyrium the templars had been consuming had finally taken their toll on Meredith. It was too late, though; she’d found the sword, and Varric realized it was Bartrand’s idol reborn, and then Meredith turned on them. It made her sad more than scared. Hawke knew from experience that fighting is different when someone cannot be reasoned with. She threw her whole body into her fight, throwing her daggers and slicing around the various creatures that Meredith–– _could the woman who was attacking her even be called Meredith any more?_ ––raised from the ground. Hawke was also keenly aware of her companions next to her: Varric with his trusted Bianca, Aveline with her sword, and the grace of the Maker as well, and Fenris with his staff. From a distance, Merrill shot bolts of energy at Meredith and the creatures, though Hawke had told her before that she couldn’t lose Merrill, and wanted her to protect herself. 

And then Meredith had come close, had come to fight Hawke one-on-one, so that Hawke could see her glowing eyes and her unhinged rage and the bleak, angry weight of her power. Meredith had grown weaker and weaker the more she was hit, and seemed to grow more and more unstable, until she was screaming at Hawke and Hawke was screaming back. Hawke could barely hear herself any more; all she knew was that the ash kept raining down on them, and Hawke could taste blood in her throat.

And then Meredith fell, and did not get up as easily as she had. Hawke saw that her dagger had found a spot in Meredith’s abdomen, a neat cut that she’d been trained by Isabela to make. Meredith’s grip on her sword faltered, and Hawke could see the glowing lyrium flickering on and off as Meredith’s power waned. 

Meredith stood up, finally, though she staggered, and weakly raised her sword up to Hawke’s chin, her other hand on her side. Hawke saw her eyes once more––they had gone almost completely red, blind with rage. Hawke remembered when they were blue. The first time they had locked eyes, and Hawke had stumbled into her. She blinked. _I should not be thinking of such things._

Then, it was only death and destruction. Hawke reached up and knocked the edge of Meredith’s sword away with the tip of her dagger, and her grip on it completely fell. Meredith fell backwards, grasping at air, clutching at nothing. Hawke started to cry. _How terrible that someone so powerful should fall in such a way._

“It’s over,” she repeated, feeling the tears come more forcefully. “Meredith, stop, it’s over, it’s over.”

“I…” The Knight-Commander struggled for words, any words, and came up empty. It was as though her rage, her power, was diminished. 

Cullen, who had until that moment been largely ineffective, came crashing down to where the fighting had occurred, quickly Cullen grabbed the sword out of Meredith’s hand and clasped a pair of handcuffs on the kneeling figure. The Knight-Commander was silent, save for the wounded breathing she offered, a large gash in her abdomen slowly turning more and more rusted. The red lyrium that had been coursing through her veins gave her blood an unnatural, bright look. Like glitter, shining in the waning sun. As Meredith bled out, Hawke stared at her, unable to formulate a coherent thought. 

Cullen stepped forward. “Champion. You have my thanks. You saved us,” he acknowledged, dipping his head. Hawke could barely recognize him. Her vision swam again, and she staggered.

“It seems I’ve been doing quite a lot of saving, lately,” Hawke offered lamely, but her joke rang hollow, and the rest of the templars stared at her. Finally, Aveline came rushing over, a welcome presence. Aveline took Hawke’s arm, steadying her. Fenris, too, and Merrill. The latter dabbed at her face with a cloth, all softness and grey smiles, while Fenris stood shocked at the scene before him, his teeth bared. 

Cullen found Meredith’s lyrium sword and brought it to Hawke, though its power was considerably diminished once it had left Meredith’s grasp. Hawke studied it, studied the blade that was smeared with her own blood and mingled with the glowing red of lyrium, as well as flecks of gravel from the Gallows. Cullen looked up at her expectantly, a puppy waiting to be given a toy.

“Destroy it,” Hawke sighed. “Though you surely would know how to do that better than I.”

“And the Kni––and Meredith?” Cullen tripped over his words, knitting his brow. 

_Well._ It seemed Hawke had been given more power than she’d cared to admit. “Ser Cullen,” she began, unsure of what to say. “You know...you do know what this means.”

Cullen dipped his head. “I will take over the post as Knight-Commander, for the interim, Champion,” he said softly. “Until we can get a council together to democratically decide.”

“Very well.” 

Hawke blinked. Spat again. The blood felt as though it was choking her. She gripped Aveline’s arm tighter. 

“But,” Cullen pleaded, suddenly unsure again. “That still leaves us with...her.” He motioned at Meredith, who was glowering at Hawke from her sitting position. She was still frighteningly silent, though even kneeling and bloodied, she was still a formidable sight. Her diadem had been knocked down and her hood torn off by a blast of magic, so her blonde hair was wild and long around her head, plastered to her face with sweat and blood. Her lips slightly parted, she was mouthing words Hawke couldn’t hear or understand. The wound on her side was fresh, though with the amount of lyrium she had ingested it seemed as though Meredith’s body was healing itself slowly. The sight still made Hawke’s stomach drop. Somehow the thought of dead Meredith made Hawke feel worse than the abomination that was now at her disposal.

“So, Champion,” Meredith spoke at last, her mouth bloody and terrifying and powerful. “Here we are at last.”

She then did something extraordinary; something Hawke had never seen her do. 

Meredith _smiled._

Fenris actually gasped; Hawke swore she saw Merrill curse. The sight was frightening and yet the power she’d wielded was still there, still there from before. Hawke almost fainted. 

“Former Knight-Commander Meredith,” Cullen ordered her. “You will pay for your crimes. You will be executed for high treason by the––” 

“And I will pay whom, hm?” Meredith snapped. “You?"

Still a hint of power. Hawke’s mind went into a tailspin. What would happen to the disgraced Knight-Commander? One who’d dared lay a hand on the Champion of Kirkwall, even after the tentative alliance they’d formed against Orsino? Would Meredith be hung? It was the Gallows, after all. Though Hawke doubted anyone was sane enough to give Meredith a trial. Blood for blood, it was. 

“Enough.” Hawke felt herself say the words before thinking. Her companions stared at her, mouths agape. She felt Aveline’s hands tighten around her arm, and she wriggled free of her grasp, steadying herself as she walked forward. 

Hawke felt herself move almost automatically. She stopped in front of Meredith, who looked up at her with a mixture of contempt and utter, total reverence. Is this what true power is like? Hawke still felt sick. Did she want Meredith to die, now, at Cullen’s hands? 

_No._ She did not. “I will take care of her myself,” Hawke snapped. She looked at her companions, who returned an incredulous glimpse, and raised her voice to reach the templars from afar. 

“All of you. You heard me. I will deal with the Knight-Commander myself,” Hawke announced bleakly. “It’s over.” 

She turned to a stunned Cullen. “I will end it.” He nodded, and Hawke felt herself nodding in return. In her periphery, Meredith cracked another terrifying smile. This unnerved Hawke, and yet there was a pit in her stomach that said _do this again, do it again, she needs you––_

_No._ Hawke grabbed the ends of the chain attached to Meredith’s handcuffs and hauled her to her feet. As she had once been hoisted up herself, not a year ago. _I am Knight-Commander Meredith_ rang in her mind, over and over. Upon moving her wound, Meredith winced, but complied. Hawke steeled her resolve, stepping forward. Walking through the Gallows. 

“What will it be, hm,” Hawke asked Meredith, who heaved ragged breaths. “Die a slow death by an incompetent templar or be hand-buried in an unmarked grave on the mountainside by the Champion herself?” 

“Just kill me now,” Meredith murmured, the lyrium in her eyes dying out once more. “I care not, Champion.” Her voice lowered, faint, and Hawke's heart sank. 

She yanked her hands forward, dragging Meredith in chains across the Gallows. Cullen caught up to Hawke, walking alongside her, while Meredith stumbled behind, half-dead from the battle and exhausted from lyrium. 

“Champion,” Cullen breathed. “Is this so wise?” 

“It is not your fight, Serah,” Hawke motioned towards Meredith. “Respectfully, this is between her and I. I’d like to have a few words before I...execute her.” 

Cullen nodded his head. “Very well. Do you need help? I will get one of my men to accompany you to the mountain.” 

Hawke looked back at her companions. Aveline was nodding in appreciation, her muscles strained after days of sword-swinging. She knew what it was like. Merril clung to Varric, lost souls watching their friend leave with a woman they knew would kill her without hesitation, had she the chance. Fenris stared her down. The only one who understood. He knew what Hawke was trying to achieve. He crossed his arms as she turned back to Cullen. 

“No, Serah,” she murmured. “I must do this on my own.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn these are some short ass chapters.....oopsies lol
> 
> I'm starting to realize why i wanted to write this is that there's not enough milf representation in DA2 . I mean there is but not for romanceable characters.....ugh


	3. That's How I See You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke makes a crucial decision whether or not to execute Meredith. Bethany and Isabela are holed up in the Amell estate for safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We find out our Hawke's first name, Vesper. V was actually the name for my og Origins protagonist, but I figured it would carry over here...I'd love to do a crossover fic between games at some point.

_Five months earlier_

Hawke looked down at the mage’s crumpled body, weakened by exhausted lyrium. Around him were the bodies of the thieves he had consorted with, making deals for money and lyrium supply, no doubt dealing with rogues because they promised an easy living. 

_It was so hard._ He was likely trying to provide for his family. Hawke didn’t know the mage’s name, but she knew his family; a wife and two children, poverty-stricken and hungry, about to go without bread for another few days until another source of income had come in. Hawke made a mental note to find them and give them some coin. In secret, of course. 

She hadn’t wanted to slay the man. She’d wanted to reason with him, with the rogues, explain that they couldn’t be seen, or the templars, or the guard, would––

But then, he’d turned to blood magic, something that shocked even Hawke and her companions, flailing about, trying to attack them. She’d known, then, that he was past reason, past even the merciful death that the templars would have given him. In the end, it was Merrill who’d made the final blow; blood magic for blood magic. Kind in kind. Merrill had collapsed, then, and then skulked in the shadows as the templars came to the scene of the crime, _too little, too late._

“Knight-Commander,” Hawke bowed her head as the imposing figure approached. “I regret to say your men have come slightly too late. It’s done, for the moment.”

Meredith studied her for a second, eyeing Hawke’s beat-up armour and rusty blades, the smear of blood she’d swiped across her nose as war paint, her shaky stance. Hawke felt exhausted. The sight of Meredith perked her up; a jolt of electric awe spread through her body.

“Champion.” Meredith dipped her head in return. “You have my thanks, once again. There is too much blood magic afoot in Kirkwall for me and my men to stamp it all out.” 

Hawke swallowed, feeling Merrill’s eyes on her from behind a pillar. “Magic is dangerous when there is dangerous intent behind it. I do not believe the man meant harm. He was simply backed into a corner.”

“And yet he was still corrupted, no?” Meredith levelled her gaze at Hawke once, more not taking her eyes off her. “I worry that your...sentimental nature may get you in more scrapes than you are able to escape, Champion.” 

Hawke offered a small smile. “Simply trying to understand their plight, Knight-Commander.”

Meredith frowned but said nothing. Hawke offered her a hand, and the Knight-Commander took it gruffly, turning Hawke’s wrist over and examining it. 

Aveline crossed her arms. “We’d best be going, Hawke.”

 _Of course._ Meredith dropped Hawke’s hand, breaking eye contact and turning to her templars. 

“Clean this up, boys,” Meredith announced, and Hawke stepped back. “No trace of this abomination by afternoon, all right? We were never here. Understood?”

 _Understood._ Cullen and the templars immediately began inspecting, collecting, all busy in a scramble, while Meredith came over to Hawke. 

“You,” she uttered, her voice sending a thrill across Hawke’s skin. “I have a task I’d like you to look at. And before you squabble, I think you will be interested. Come see me in my office before nightfall.”

And she was gone, before Hawke could even blink or decline. _A flash of lightning in the Kirkwall haze._

**********

They walked up the Soundermount path, silent save for laboured breathing, until Hawke reached a clearing. She stopped and looked around; she thought that this must be the place. Then, her eye caught the flap of burlap on the face of a cliff: covering the entrance to a tiny cave, a room in a series of tunnels that comprised the huge cave network underneath Sundermount. _This was the place._

Meredith stopped when Hawke had, swaying on her feet but staying silent. Hawke looked at her: gone was the older woman’s resolve, her hands bound, her head lolling forward as she fell in and out of lyrium-addled visions. The wound on her side was starting to spread; perhaps it hadn’t been as shallow as Hawke had thought. Yet, the rage was still there. When she caught sight of Hawke staring at her, she growled. 

“You may as well get it over with, Champion,” Meredith snapped. “Or do you plan to torture me until I die?”

Hawke cocked her head. “I just want information, Meredith.”

“Of what? Ha! The Champion of Kirkwall comes to her insane attacker for information. What could I know that you would possibly want?”

“Why you did this. Why all of this happened. I want to know.”

“Even you know something of the templars’ struggles with lyrium, Champion,” Meredith looked down at her side, faltering as she touched it. “I lost control. My motives remain the same, however. Bring order to Kirkwall. That’s all I ever wanted.” 

“Why invoke the Right of Annulment, then?” Hawke considered it for a bit, then dropped the chain that was connected to Meredith’s cuffs. The woman looked up at her, wary.

“Just kill me, Champion,” Meredith muttered. “Or would you prefer to draw out my death, long and slow? Would that bring you greater pleasure? I’m sure you must think that I deserve it.”

Hawke sighed. “I don’t want to kill you, Meredith.”

Meredith blinked. “What?”

“I said I don’t want to kill you. I don’t wish you dead.”

Meredith let out a laugh, a barking echo that rang with desperation. “Then you are more of a fool that I thought. I tried to kill you and your party, Champion. Why on Maker’s earth would you not kill me without hesitation? Everyone else seems to want to.”

“Why not show mercy?”

Meredith looked up at Hawke. “Because I never did.” 

“Perhaps you and I are different. Perhaps I want to show you that mercy is possible, to show you that not all of those who associate with mages are corrupted.”

Meredith’s brow knitted together once more. Hawke continued, steeling her gaze, gaining more and more confidence. “And...because you saved my sister. That means I owe you.”

“I saved your sister because I did not want the full extent of your wrath.”

“You saved a mage when it was everything you stood against,” Hawke pleaded. “How could I be expected to wreak vengeance on the soul who protected the person I care most about in the world? Your mercy towards Bethany means that she owes you her life.”

Hawke stopped, looking at Meredith, who was slowly starting to stagger once more. She sighed and walked over, walking behind the Knight-Commander before unlocking her handcuffs. They clicked off with a small _pop_ and fell on the sandy brush below. Meredith looked at her wrists, rubbed raw, and curled her hands into a fist, before opening them again. 

“You do not think I’d kill you now?”

Hawke smiled thinly. “I guess I’ll just have to trust you.”

Meredith frowned, bowing her head. Becoming more shaky on her feet. When she spoke, her voice was almost at a whisper. “I do not think I deserve this, Champion.”

And then, she crumpled. Hawke, who had come around from behind her, flinched and messily caught her by the shoulders before she hit the ground. _Fuck._ Hawke adjusted her grip, raising the Knight-Commander up, before dragging her a few feet to the cave entrance. While Hawke was strong, Meredith still wore her top armour, which weighed her down and caused Hawke to curse before trying to adjust her grip again. She’d hoped there would be no one else in the cave; they’d just have to take a chance. 

Hawke dragged Meredith into the cave, breathing a sigh of relief that it was, mercifully, empty. It was a tiny, cozy place; a small antechamber about the size of a cellar, with a low-hanging ceiling marked with stalactites and the drawings of smugglers of centuries past. Someone had built a rudimentary fire pit in the middle, and there was wood debris laying everywhere. Hawke knew that it would be damp, smoky wood, though she was supposed it was better than nothing. She pulled Meredith to a spot near the back, laying her down, putting her cloak underneath the older woman’s head to support it. Meredith seemed to slip in and out of consciousness; Hawke cursed as she started a fire, wondering what she was doing, _what the hell was she doing._ A feeble fire started, finally; Hawke added rogue pieces of wood to it before turning back to Meredith. 

There was no question that Hawke’s final cut had been more lethal than she’d anticipated. There was something wrong; normally, a move like that had been exactly what Isabela intended it to do; stun, slow down, but not kill. Hawke did not like to kill unless she’d had no other choice. The cut was supposed to be a distraction, but Meredith’s figure seemed to be taking it worse than any normal human. Hawke supposed it was the red lyrium, attempting to begin the first stages of leaving the templar’s body; Hawke looked down at it, and could have sword she’d seen a glimmer of glowing, pulsing red in the firelight. She shuddered. Meredith was losing blood. 

Hawke reached into her inventory bag and pulled out a health potion, before looking up to hear Meredith force a cough that was so wracking it woke her back into consciousness. She looked around, confused, though her temper had been calmed. 

“I believe,” Meredith offered, before coughing again. “I believe...I have broken a rib or two.”

Hawke dipped her head, offering up a health potion. “I have tools for healing, right here, if you’ll accept them. I’d need to take care of your gash first.”

Meredith’s eyes widened. “I’m not taking a potion crafted by mages.”

Hawke stared at her. “If you think I’m going to try and kill you, don’t you think I would have just stabbed you in the Gallows and been done with it?”

“Fair point.”

Hawke opened a bottle of health potion and downed one herself, feeling a pleasant rush to the head. She’d realized that she’d forgotten about herself, too; she was bruised and aching, and her nose may very well have been broken. She shook her head. _Later._ She could take care of herself later.

For the first time, Hawke realized that she did not hate Meredith. She did not know why she was keeping the disgraced Knight-Commander alive, though she recognized that it would have been what Bethany would have wanted. She hoped Bethany was safe. 

She grabbed an injury kit from her bag, approaching Meredith with a poultice. “May I?”

Meredith gazed up at her warily, but nodded. “As you wish.”

Hawke quickly unclasped the Knight-Commander’s armour, removing the iron chestplate and shoulder spikes, before laying it on the cave floor. Underneath her chain mail, Meredith was in templar robes; beautiful and finely crafted, red and cream like those of the Chantry laysisters, although they had been tailored to allow for better manoeuvring in battle. Hawke reached for her dagger and cut away a piece of fabric on the Knight-Commander’s side, pulling it away from the wound while Meredith winced. 

“Take this,” Hawke murmured, offering a healing potion to Meredith. “Drink.”

Meredith acquiesced, drinking the whole of the small bottle, then lay her head back. “You should have...you should have let me die, Champion.” 

“I…” Hawke struggled to think of an answer. “I respect you too much for that.”

They fell into silence once more. Hawke carefully applied a poultice and let it rest on Meredith’s side, hearing the latter’s breathing fall into quiet slumber once more. Hawke then crawled over to the fire, warming her hands. _What was she doing?_ She knew that she’d taken a path she could no longer return from. Her companions would––no, they wouldn’t worry, they knew she could take care of each other...still, they’d think she was insane. Off her rocker. Not to be trusted. Why save the Knight-Commander that had tried to kill her, after all? Had tried to kill them all?

Not that Hawke could tell any of them. They’d have thought she was no longer sound of judgement. Could no longer be trusted. Though Hawke knew herself of some of the reasoning of the templars. After all, were the templars not just as cursed as the mages? Forced to take lyrium in a misguided quest to control, regulate their bodies, only to be enslaved to it entirely, letting their bodies waste away? At least, Hawke thought, the mages have a system. At least they have magic as an outlet for their struggles, for their pent-up emotion and energy and electricity. Templars had nothing, and so fell to addiction too easily. It wasn’t as if there were any sort of support network for them, either. Control or be controlled. 

Hawke wondered how long Meredith had been taking lyrium for. She looked at the Knight-Commander’s face, studying the lines around her eyes, the trace of her cheeks and lips. If she had joined the Order at, say, seventeen or eighteen, she’d have been supplied with it for... _decades._ Hawke had no idea how old Meredith was, potentially in her thirties or forties, though she looked older now than she’d been a few hours before. Again, Hawke supposed the red lyrium had some sort of youth-preserving effect…the thought scared her. Meredith looked pale, gaunt. 

Hawke suddenly felt exhausted, too, and the shadows dancing on the wall of the cave reminded her of the dancing, of the fighting that had occurred earlier that day. Hawke felt her eyelids droop, and she drank another health potion for good measure, feeling the liquid down her throat and soothing her. 

She leaned back on a rock formation, watching the light of the fire dance on Meredith’s face, until her vision went black and she fell into a deep, cloudy sleep. 

************

Isabela had held Bethany in her arms until the loud noises stopped. The screams, yells, crashes of buildings crumbling and magical explosions landing nearby had grown dulled to a low murmur, and finally devolved into silence, until it was only their breathing that gave any indication of life. 

They stayed in the Amell estate cellar; Bethany knew of the secret door, the one that led down to Darktown to escape if they’d needed, though she barricaded that as well and cast a spell to lock the doors to the wine room, where they stayed. It was cold, and dark; neither of them dared to move or light any sort of fire, and Isabela had only brought a small weak lantern at the last minute. So there they lay, waiting, quavering, worry and anticipation; Isabela squirmed up next to her for warmth, and they covered themselves with an old fur pelt in case they needed to camouflage. 

After two hours, however, they grew bored, and tired of the anticipation and stress. Isabela did, anyway. 

“I’m getting some of this wine,” she huffed, and rose up from under the pelt. “Want some?”

“What?” 

Isabela shrugged. “I’m tired of waiting. We may as well pass the time.”

Bethany was indignant. “What––what if we have to fight?”

“Pshh. I can fight drunk. Can’t everyone?”

“ _Isabela!_ ”

“What? Do you want some or not?”

Bethany frowned. “That’s technically our wine. We’re in our wine cellar. Shouldn’t you be...you know...asking first?”

“Oh, right,” Isabela grinned. “Sorry, darling. May I have some of your lovely Amell claret? You know, in case we end up dying here, in your cellar.”

Bethany rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

“Want some?”

“No.”

Isabela shrugged again, offering a smirk. “Suit yourself.” 

She shuffled over to one of the huge barrels of wine and, finding no wine glass, positioned an old wooden bucket in front of it. She loosened the cork from the barrel and filled up the bucket before jamming it back in. 

Bethany was horrified. “A _bucket?_ ”

“Sure.” Isabela could feel the younger woman’s eyes on her, watching her with something that was akin to a mixture of distaste and intrigue. Finally, Bethany moved forward. 

“Give me some of that.”

Isabela grinned again. “Knew it.”

Bethany took a small sip and smiled wanly, though the weight of what was occurring outside caused her to frown again quickly. “Are you sure we shouldn’t be...fighting?”

“Oh Beth, honey,” Isabela cautioned, the shortening of her name causing Bethany to look up at her. “It’s not a fight. It’s a bloodbath. The safest place for you to be is here.”

Bethany felt tears welling up in her eyes. “I just––oh, I don’t know. Vesper’s fighting up there. I should be there. She shouldn’t fight for me.”

“Beth,” Isabela urged, laying her hand on top of Bethany’s. “Sometimes you need to know when to walk away. When to not engage. Take it from me––and I may have walked away from too many fights, I may have not a shred, not an ounce of courage or honour or pride like your elder sister does––but this much I know. Sometimes it’s simply better to live. And that’s what Vesper wants you to do.”

Bethany looked at Isabela again, wiping her tears. “Don’t you want to fight?”

“I do. But your sister tasked me in charge with protecting you. Here. And so that’s what I’ll do.”

“Do you want to, though? I’m sure you could leave if you want to.”

Isabela smiled. “It’s the greatest honour I could do. I like your sister very much, you know. If she gives me this job, then I’ll die doing it, if I have to.” She winked. “Though I won’t die.”

Bethany smiled shyly as well. “I’m glad you’re here, then.”

“Me too.”

They both took a swig of the bucket wine, their faces illuminated by the wan light of the lantern, and the muffled sounds of the chaos of the world raging outside.


End file.
